by Michelle Winters

Not long before Agathe and Réjean’s twentieth wedding anniversary, Réjean’s truck is found abandoned on the side of the road, there’s no trace of him, no body, and no sign of a struggle. I Am a Truck explores what happened to Réjean, as well as Agathe’s attempts to start living her life again in his absence.

There’s a lot of French in I Am a Truck––or, more accurately, the “Franglish” frequently spoken in New Brunswick––and I can almost guarantee that I missed something due to my lack of understanding. That said, the words and phrases are frequently employed in a way that makes the meanings apparent, and they give the story a great deal of personality. Arguably even better are the times that Winters writes the accent into the dialogue, like “ouaou” instead of “wow,” “buke” instead of “book,” or “Hoos this?” And, adding icing to the cake, the author never layers the accents on so thick to prove inaccessible. (Trainspotting is probably the best counterpoint I can use here to better explain myself––not to suggest that there’s anything wrong with Trainspotting, just that it took me a while to get into the flow of the writing, to understand the accent.)

Likely the most effective thing Winters does with the story is teasing readers about answers to the mystery. At least a few times, I took a bit of information and went running to all sorts of wild conclusions. Obviously this could be more because I’m a fan of reading far too deeply into things, but I don’t want to sell her short with that explanation: I really think she cultivated effective suspense with these red herrings. And that could have been enough to make I Am a Truck something special, but Winters commits the cardinal sin of disrespecting her readers. I feel like I’m harping on about this too often, and I feel like it’s a very hard thing to explain to those who aren’t already on the bus, but I’ll try my best. There are certain moments in a story where something earth-shattering happens. In the best stories, everything leading up to the moment comes together to make it significant, and the author who senses this has no need to remind the reader that it is, in fact, significant. My favourite stories are written by authors possessing enough confidence to present these moments simply, almost in passing. Taking time to pause and underline the importance only serves to hurt the story’s immersion and sincerity. In the context of this story, it was really weird. Winters built things up and got there … and then she explained why I should care.

It’s possible that the author worried that readers wouldn’t get there, but a more satisfying explanation to me has more to do with the length. When a book’s slim, it’s possible that it’s stripped down to its bare bones in order to strengthen the story, but it’s also possible that it was a bit rushed. In the case of I Am a Truck, I think it has more to do with the latter, mainly because things happening in the periphery of the main plot are often explained rather than played out, and it feels abrupt in the way it concludes. So there’s a lot to love here, but there’s also a sense that it could have been better-rounded, explored more fully, a story that could have come with a better sense of completeness.